The Day the Mountain Spoke to Me at the Devil’s Throat

I could already move with ease through Escuela 1 and 2, and Juncalillo... ah, Juncalillo was my sanctuary. To me, going there was a trip of pure relaxation; I loved that sensation of gliding without a rush, letting the landscape envelop me. On the other hand, in the Escuela area, things were different: that’s where you did "chuts," where you chased speed, where you felt the rigor.

But there was one place I always looked at out of the corner of my eye, with a mixture of respect and sacred terror: La Garganta del Diablo (The Devil’s Throat).

I had been skiing in Portillo for about two years and had never dared to go up. I knew some people took the chairlift just for the view, had lunch at the restaurant, and then rode back down sitting in the same chair, staring into the void from the safety of the iron bar. But that was no use to me. I didn't go up just to look; if I went up, it was to ski down. The problem was that fear kept my skis glued to the familiar runs.

The Leap into the Void

Until one day, without thinking too much—because if you think about it, you won’t do it—I went for it. I got on the chair and started going up, up, and up. As the hotel grew smaller and the wind began to whistle differently, I felt that pit in my stomach that warns you that you’ve gotten yourself into trouble.

When I finally reached the top and hopped off the chair, the world stopped. I peered over the edge of the Garganta, and my first reaction was, "Wow! What the hell am I doing here?" The name is no exaggeration; from the top, the pitch looks as if the earth has split open to swallow you. I felt that coldness that isn't from the snow, but from pure adrenaline racing down your spine.

And then, something magical happened. I don't know how else to explain it: my mind became one with the mountain.

In a split second, the chaos of snow and rocks organized itself before my eyes. My brain, almost instinctively, traced a perfect imaginary line. I saw the path, I saw the turns, I saw where I had to set my edge and where I had to let it flow. It was as if the mountain were dictating a musical score and I only had to play the music.

I dropped in. It was a rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump—fast, almost electric. There was no doubt. My body responded to that mental command with a precision I didn't even know I possessed. Before I knew it, I had exited the funnel and was back in the Escuela area.

Relief and the Biggest Lie

I reached the bottom with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. What a relief, my God! You can’t imagine the energy discharge. In that moment, shivering and gasping for air, I said to myself with total conviction: "Never again. This was the first and the last time."

It lasted five minutes.

As soon as I caught my breath, the same adrenaline that had terrified me gave me a shove. What do you mean "never again"? It was the most incredible thing I had ever done in my life! So, almost without realizing it, I was back in the lift line. I went up again, twice in a row, to prove to myself that it hadn't been luck—that the connection with the line was real.

After that second run, I hung up my skis for the day. I didn't have many days left in the season, and my excitement quota was overflowing. I had to process what had just happened.

Control and the Ghost of Wipeouts

That experience at the Garganta taught me something fundamental about the way I ski. I was always a skier who needed to feel in control. If I felt speed getting the better of me, if I felt the boards starting to command my legs, I would brake immediately. I’d make a giant turn, cruise for a bit, and regain command.

Perhaps it was the trauma of my early days. Lord, it was hard for me to learn! I remember the beginner’s pen, the thousand times I fell trying to grab the "poma" or the surface lift tow. I "ate dirt" in the most ridiculous ways imaginable. Losing control meant ending up as a knot in the snow, and after so many falls, you develop a fine-tuned survival instinct.

But that day at the Devil’s Throat, control wasn't a struggle; it was a dance. For the first time, I wasn't "braking so I wouldn't fall," I was "flowing to get down." It was a massive release, a moment where my anxiety vanished and turned into pure presence. It’s what I call the "healing" of the mountain: that state where nothing else exists—not problems, not tomorrow—only the next turn.

The Return of the Skier

Now, after some time away, I am returning to skiing. I feel that connection is still there, stored somewhere in the memory of my knees and my head. The truth is, I love remembering these old times, these eras when Portillo was my school of life.

Sometimes people ask me if I still ski. And I tell them that you never stop being a skier. I might not be on the slopes every weekend like before, but the mountain leaves its mark on you. Once you’ve learned to read the path at the Devil’s Throat, that vision stays with you forever.

I’ll keep telling you more stories, friends. Because that’s what skiing is: a fragment of relaxation in the middle of the madness, a relief that only those of us who have wiped out in the beginner's pen and triumphed at the summit can truly understand.

See you on the slopes, hopefully very soon! ❄️⛷️